Dear Rabbit
by SomeoneI'mSure
Summary: Megsy as a petrorabbit oneshots. Post-war. OC warning. Loosely ties in with my T 0 R N series.


**Title**: War Drums

_Summary_: Alternate future.

Rated: K+

Main Characters: Megatron, as a petrorabbit.

0/0/0/0/0

He pressed his little pink nose up against the datapad, almond optics narrowed into slits as he struggled to focus his nearsighted vision on the glyphs. His long ears twitched in consternation when the words finally materialized in front of him, after three full kliks of carefully forcing them to adjust, struggling not to turn his head towards the noises of the she-mech behind him. His tried to push his petrorabbit instincts to the side and focus on the only work he was allowed to do, and failed to drag its attention away from the very horrendous rhythmic flapping noises his guard was making. If he still had his full language decoder inside, he would have words like 'fragging' and 'glitch' to call her. As it was, he was barely able to process that single glyph that he was allowed to remember.

Megatron…

…Megatron.

…Megatron…

The datapad meant something about him, he knew, but the meaning of the other glyphs fell through his mind like sand through the hourglass. Petrorabbits weren't created with the instinctual patience of a born killer, and they barely had the complex CNA-coding necessary to make up those small and flighty personalities for them.

At least he wasn't listening to that she-mech drone on and on about this and that, with words he couldn't understand anymore, in a tone that was almost patronizing, and with a voice that grated like nails across a chalkboard, especially to his sensitive audio funnels. Absently, he brought a paw up to rub one, ignoring how it flopped forward into his face and covered his optic for a brief second. It was enough to distract the petrorabbit and he quickly pounced on its momentarily loss of focus to read the next glyph that he could understand.

Megatron.

Megatron…

…Megatron…

The horribly mundane task was the only one he was allowed, outside of normal petrorabbit activities. It was the only time he was allowed time to get a grip on his senses and remember his name. His identity.

He knew other glyphs, too, but they weren't used often in reports, which made them all the more teasing and frustrating to know. Sad. Interface. Happy… He was inevitably reduced to reading body language, the only thing his now feeble mind could comprehend and focus on without losing that very important interest that body reading required. When he wasn't trying to find his name on a report, or discovering those rare words he actually knew, he was busy staring his bodyguard up and down.

Megatron understood why people called her cold. Ruthless. Cruel. He remembered a few brief flashes from his past self, about his impressions of her. He had admired her then, respected her, seen her as an enemy to be admired. Now, he saw something to be feared. Beneath her heavy artillery, her bulky frame, there was someone as cold and ruthless as Shockwave, a genius buried beneath layers of soldier material.

He had not feared her at first when he had woken up as a petrorabbit, remembering various times when she had treated organic creatures – which was still much smaller than he – with the kindness and gentleness of a carrier. He had expected mercy from her, or at least the smallest amount of pity.

…Mega-tron…

…Mega-tron.

Mega-tron…

Then he realized that she had done this to him. Those cold blood-red optics stared at him like he was a piece of meat to be dissected on her table and studied while he kicked out his last vent. The level of cold that radiated from her very being towards him rivaled even Shockwave's inherent coldness. But no – he had met Shockwave, and their oozing auras weren't nearly the same. Shockwave didn't openly hate him, nor passionately love him, but was a simply neutral mask of logical fallacies. His guard was something else. Darker, crueler, a wave of chaos and hatred hidden beneath two glowing red embers.

A part of him – that strong part of him that housed both the petrorabbit's and his own self-preservation instincts – prevented him from turning to stare at his bodyguard. The black and white she-mech remained preoccupied with her report, her digits flying over the keyboard and pausing every once and a while to rest. He could hear the rhythmic tapping, never once missing a beat, in tune to the sound of a soundless drum. As terrifying as the unstoppable march of an army of vehicons, as invigorating as the hundred shouts of a hero's name, as silently overpowering as the instincts of an animal... were those silent drumbeats of a timeless song and dance he had once taken part of.

Mega-tron…

Mega-tron…

…Mega-tron.

He returned his focus to the glyphs in front of him. Though he could not put it to name, he knew that Stockholm Syndrome had sunk it's claws into him. The she-mech was changing his very perspective on reality without even speaking to him, without even attempting to argue his millions of years old reasons to why he had let the war continue on and on, and she was doing it all while she was bending him to his will, making him submissive and dependent on her and her alone.

That was more terrifying than the endless rhythmic typing he heard every time she put her digits to the keyboard.

Meg-a-tron.

Meg-a-tron.

Meg-a-tron.


End file.
